


Your Lips, Your Hips Right In Front Of Me

by cloneclubbingcreampuff



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 03:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5442437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloneclubbingcreampuff/pseuds/cloneclubbingcreampuff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Becommissar holiday fic exchange.  Prompt: Kommissar teaches Beca how to bake a Christmas treat from Germany.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Lips, Your Hips Right In Front Of Me

Being roommates with someone as low-key as Cynthia Rose is definitely one of the best decisions Beca has ever made. It had been scary, moving to New York, but having a friend makes it significantly less daunting. Cynthia Rose knows all the good coffee shops, restaurants and record stores, and after Beca moves in, she takes her around the city, avoiding the obvious tourist traps and showing her all the hidden treasures New York hides. 

It sounds dumb, like she's a pirate or something. Still, Beca can't deny the thrill that clings to her when Cynthia Rose pulls her into a small bookstore in Queens, or a Thai food restaurant that Beca will definitely be ordering from again. Cynthia Rose smiles at her whenever she fangirls over something new and Beca feels like such a kid, but she can't help it. 

Beca starts her job as a part time radio DJ, and slowly, New York becomes a home, fitting her like a comfortable sweater. Months pass; Beca adjusts to her new life, to early mornings and cold cups of coffee, late nights in her studio and Netflix marathons with Cynthia Rose. The routine of it all is something Beca didn't know she'd like, because she sees herself as a more spontaneous person. But it fits, and it's not until late November that a piece of Beca's past comes back to haunt her. 

She's walking to the subway after a shift at the radio station; her hours are weird, and she works early mornings on Mondays, then late into the evening on Wednesdays and Fridays. It doesn't sound grueling, but lining up tracks and picking out music out of her ever-expanding repertoire can be stressful. She rubs at her eyelids and hears her feet thump against the sidewalk. It's 10 in the morning, and Beca's inner clock is so messed up, but she feels an odd sort of peace come over her when she spots a small music store across the street. Music Village. She has walked past it before, for sure, but for some reason, she decides to go inside. Maybe she could get a Christmas present for Cynthia Rose. She told Beca yesterday she'd been meaning to buy a new pair of drumsticks. 

So, Beca walks in, shaking off the early morning cold. The warmth hits her first, and if she was wearing glasses, they'd probably be fogging up right about now. She sighs, then looks around, stepping deeper in to the shop. There are colorful electric guitars that catch her eye because of how beautiful they look (she can't play worth shit) and she spots a drum set in the corner that Cynthia Rose would definitely fawn over if she were here. Turning down another aisle, she sees drumsticks and picks out a set. Her eyes are still blurry with sleep and her brain is fuzzy, which is why she doesn't detect someone behind her until she hears a voice. 

"Can I help you find something?"

That accent. Beca has definitely heard it before. She turns, and wonders if she fell asleep and she's dreaming. If so, her boss is not going to be amused when she wakes up. 

But no, she turns and Kommissar's mouth falls open in a small 'o' and Beca smiles awkwardly. She considers pinching herself, but rolls her eyes at the thought. There's silence for a few moments, and then Beca clears her throat. 

"Uh, hey. No, I'm--I found what I'm looking for," she says, holding up the cardboard case with the drumsticks inside. 

"Beca," is all Kommissar says, and it comes out in a breathy whisper, like she can't believe what's happening. Beca's not sure what to feel now. Running into a former arch-enemy in New York isn't something she does every day and she's not sure what the rules of etiquette are for this type of thing. 

She blinks. Since when did she care about etiquette?

"Yeah, um, it's me," she mumbles. "I moved to New York about four months ago. What--what are you doing here?" 

"I work here during DSM's off season," Kommissar replies. She seems to have recovered from her surprise, but her gaze is intense and unwavering. "It's good to see you. How have you been?"

"Good. I like it here, a lot. It--uh...it's nice. I moved in with Cynthia Rose. I don't know if you remember her--"

"Ah yes, I do. Beautiful girl. Strong voice." 

Beca smiles softly and nods, making a mental note to pass the compliment on. "Yeah, that's the one. These are for her, actually," she says, waving the drumsticks in her hand. She's not sure why she's still talking to Kommissar, why she hasn't made some excuse to leave. She is dead tired and feels like sleeping for at least a day, not to mention she probably looks like crap, but something about the way Kommissar is looking at her stops her in her tracks. She almost looks like she misses Beca. Which is crazy, since they were never friends. 

"Those are a good choice. They're strong and durable, and I'm sure she'll like them. Are you spending Christmas in New York, then?" 

"Uh, yeah." 

Kommissar's face visibly brightens. "I'm going to have a Christmas party on December 20th at my loft. You're welcome to come. I could text you the details..." 

And before Beca knows it, she and Kommissar have exchanged numbers. 

All in all, it's an unusual morning. 

 

\----

 

In the end, it's Beca who volunteers to help Kommissar with the food for the Christmas party. There are a million excuses she could make for not doing it: she's busy with her job, Chloe and Fat Amy are coming to visit on the 17th, she can't bake to save her life, but ultimately, none of these things even cross her mind when she hears the stress in Kommissar's voice, telling her that everyone else she has asked to help is either out of town or busy. Whenever they talk on the phone, it's usually about their jobs, or the weather, or their friends. Never about the past, never about Worlds, because it's just...it feels weird, as if Beca's looking at another version of herself. An alternate universe where things were magnetized and seemed ten times more dramatic than they actually were. Kind of like high school, which...ugh. 

So, in the spirit of new beginnings, Beca shows up at Kommissar's loft. She'd been expecting it to be a swanky uptown apartment, but it's a modest brownstone near 32nd street, and Beca walks up the porch steps and rings the doorbell, her fingers tingling with cold. 

Kommissar swings the door open and ushers her inside. She's wearing a light grey v-neck and a purple apron with flowers on it. Beca smiles at the image. She looks stressed; some wisps of hair are falling from her pony tail, and there's some flour smeared across her forehead. It's kind of adorable, Beca thinks, then frowns at herself as she taps on her mental brakes. Her thoughts screech like tires on pavement, fading into nothing as Kommissar huffs and flicks some hair out of her eyes. 

"I'm glad you came, tiny maus," Kommissar says with a hint of desperation. The nickname is something Beca hasn't heard in almost a year, and a strange sense of nostalgia comes over her. She never liked that name, and yet...

"Yeah, I mean, I wouldn't bail on you. What do you need me to do?" Beca asks, glancing around the apartment. It's immaculate, clean and stark, but not without a touch of warmth and home. A painting of a forest in winter lines one of the walls of the main room, and there's a brick fireplace and a cream colored couch near it. The windows on the opposite side of the apartment are wide and spacious, so even from the kitchen, Beca can see the city sprawled out before her. It's beautiful, and she can easily imagine Kommissar sitting on the couch, sipping wine and enjoying the view. Beca tries to take all of this in, even though it feels strange. Seeing the place where Kommissar lives makes her less of a mystery, as vulnerable and human as anyone else.

"First," Kommissar says, rummaging through a drawer, "Put this on." She hands Beca an apron, then whirls around to study her cook book. "It's been so long since I've baked pfeffernusse cookies, I don't know if I'll get it right the first time..." 

Beca raises an eyebrow. "It'll be okay," she says, tying her apron around her back. "We can do this. Just...take a few deep breaths, okay? You don't need to impress anyone, it's just me here," she grins.

"Right," Kommissar murmurs, as if she's not sure Beca's being sincere. Even so, she leans back against the counter and breathes. Slowly, the color comes back into her cheeks. She morphs into the woman Beca remembers from Worlds, the confident, authoritative person who never backs down from a challenge. 

Beca washes her hands, then just follows Kommissar's instructions. The cook book on the counter is written in German, and Beca watches as she reads it, then translates, telling Beca what to do. It's not hard, but it is kind of distracting when Kommissar says certain words or names of ingredients in German. Beca pushes that to the back of her mind and tries to focus. She mixes the dry ingredients while Kommissar breaks eggs and stirs all the liquid ingredients. They put the batter on a tray, then Kommissar pops the cookies into the oven and sets the timer. They work together so efficiently that it barely takes any time at all. Any signs of Kommissar's stress from before are completely gone, Beca notes with satisfaction.

"So, what do we do now?" She asks, wiping her hands on her apron. 

"We wait. I know how Pieter eats, so we'll probably need to make three dozen more," Kommissar replies.

Beca laughs, even while a distant part of mind is scared by the clashing of her present and her past. This is as foreign as it is familiar, because there are no traces of the competitive relationship she and Kommissar once had. It does nothing but confuse her. 

"Tiny maus? What is wrong?" 

"Don't call me that," Beca says, with a distinct strain in her voice. 

Kommissar notices, because of course she does. She steps closer to Beca, who steps back until her spine touches the kitchen counter. Marble digs into her back as she places her hands on the flat surface. She feels a prick of guilt as she looks up at Kommissar, who has a pained expression on her face. 

"Why not?" She asks softly. 

Beca rolls her eyes. "Because that's not my name. Any stupid nicknames you came up with for me a year ago don't matter now. It's...I mean, it's time to move on, right?" 

"I suppose. But I never used that name to mock you. That was not my intention and I'm sorry if you ever felt that it was." 

Beca glances up at her then, frowning. Everything they've been doing--the phone calls, planning a Christmas party--it had been borne out of politeness, almost as if 'friends' was a label that didn't quite fit. Now, though, Beca wonders if she's been misreading everything. Because Kommissar is being so nice, so caring, and it's making her suspicious.

"Yeah, okay," Beca says, her voice hard. "Whatever. It's in the past." 

Kommissar shakes her head, and one of her hands comes up to cradle Beca's chin. It's oddly reminiscent of how she'd once touched her cheek, and again Beca finds herself leaning into the touch.

"Clearly it's not, if it still bothers you," Kommissar protests. "I am sorry, Beca. I wish to make a new start. I want to be your friend." 

"Why?" 

"Because you intrigue me," her former nemesis says, after a beat. "Is that so hard to believe?" 

"Kind of," Beca admits, then stares down at her shoes. Kommissar's hand fades away as she lets out a sigh. "We've just started to...it's just that you barely know anything about me."

Kommissar nods, then fixes Beca with a calculating look. Her hand twitches at her side. Beca shuffles her feet uncomfortably, unsure what caused the shift in their conversation. The seconds pass, and her eyes fix on the oven timer, counting down the time until the cookies will be done. She doesn't want to escape, exactly, but this is one of the things Beca had been trying to avoid. Bringing up the past when it doesn't matter anymore. Despite that, even though they've spent the past month talking on the phone, the awkwardness and unsure blundering that she had always experienced around Kommissar is resurfacing. She can feel it, along with an uncomfortable fluttering in her abdomen. 

"Why are you here?" She hears Kommissar say, and it's not accusatory or angry or defensive. Beca can't tell what it is. The other woman's face is blank and it makes Beca feel like she is underwater, flailing about for answers that she is too far in to reach. 

"Because you needed help, and I'm all about growing these days, I guess." 

"I see. Not because you actually care," Kommissar says, her voice hard, becoming as cold as the Arctic Sea.

"I do care," Beca says quickly, earnestly. "I do."

"But you and I have just become reacquainted. You don't know who I am either."

"Still. I want to learn. I--it's not just because you needed someone to help with the Christmas party. I like spending time with you." It comes as a surprise, hearing the words trickle out of her mouth, but she knows they're true. Kommissar has become a natural part of her life, like taking the subway or going to her favorite record store. She blended into the backdrop of Beca's world so seamlessly that she hadn't noticed her at first. 

She has been so busy running from the ghost of who she used to be, completely missing out on what was happening right in front of her. 

"I'm sorry. I've been such an ass. You--we're friends, okay? We're totally friends."

"Okay," Kommissar murmurs, and a grin comes back to settle on her lips. 

Beca is able to breathe again. 

 

\----

 

"By the way, I didn't want to say this at first, but in the spirit of newfound friendship, you have some flour on your face."

Kommissar rolls her eyes, and Beca's stomach does a little flip. It really needs to stop that. She's not ready for the implications of what it might mean. Who would be? 

The other woman's hands are covered in cookie batter, and she blows a strand of hair out of her face. "I can't--"

"I got it," Beca interrupts, grabbing a paper towl and leaning closer to Kommissar. She wipes the flour off and goes back to stirring, absent-mindedly whistling a tune from a song she'd played on the radio the day before. 

After the pfeffernusse cookies, Kommissar had decided to make German lebkuchen. Her kitchen table is covered with plastic bowls, ingredients and cookie sheets. The process for making lebkuchen takes a while; cutting the flour into rectangles and sticking almonds on each piece before placing them in the oven. It's not as complicated as Beca thought it would be, but she can't help but admire Kommissar for taking her baked treats so seriously. 

"What are you thinking about?" Kommissar queries, dumping eggs into a bowl. 

Beca shrugs and pours the dry ingredients in with the liquid ones, then continues stirring. "Just about how different we are. I've never cooked anything more complicated than mac and cheese. Do you bake like this every Christmas?" 

"I haven't for a few years. When I was growing up, it was a sort of tradition. My whole family would join in. I have two brothers and one sister, along with many cousins, so you can imagine the mess we made in the kitchen. I'm not sure how our parents put up with us," Kommissar concludes with a laugh. Soft and bright, more beautiful than any music Beca has heard in quite a while. 

And her stomach is fluttering again. Wonderful. 

"That's great," she manages with a smile. 

"It was," Kommissar agrees, her eyes glazing over for a moment. Her hands don't cease moving, and her gaze falls on Beca once more. "I only wish I had inherited my parents' infinite patience. What about you? Any special holiday traditions?" 

"Not really. My mom is Jewish and my dad is atheist, so we don't really celebrate with gifts. But we always spent Hanukkah together until my parents divorced."

She's not sure why the words slip out so easily, but after everything Kommissar just shared about her life, it seems only fair. Still, she readies herself for the sympathetic glance she usually gets from people who hear that her parents are separated. Instead of showing pity, Kommissar slides close to Beca and puts an arm around her. "Perhaps this can be a new tradition," she says. 

"Yeah."

"You're talkative." 

"I'm just afraid I'll say something stupid, like how you looked cute with flour on your forehead," Beca blurts, then immediately flushes. 

There are some things she will never outgrow, apparently. 

She expects Kommissar to ignore her comment, or maybe that's what she is desperately hoping for. Either way, it doesn't happen. Beca averts her eyes and stares back at the bowl front of her, stirring methodically and studying every lump of batter, hyper aware of Kommissar's every breath. Her cheeks are getting warmer, and now she most definitely wants to escape. 

The arm around her shoulder tightens and spins her towards the other woman so she has no choice but to drop the wooden spoon and look up into sparkling green eyes.

"I'm flattered," is all Kommissar says. She's smirking. 

Beca's hackles rise. "Don't laugh at me. Just forget what I said." 

To her relief, Kommissar does. Or, she goes back to what she's doing. They work in silence, and the only sounds are the clattering of trays as Kommissar takes one tray of lebkuchen out of the oven and puts another one in. Beca considers making an excuse to leave before frowning at herself. That's not how she wants this friendship to start, with lies and avoidance. 

"Would it help stop your oncoming panic attack if I told you I think you're cute, too?" Kommissar asks. Her tone isn't teasing, or playful. She must be one hell of an actor. 

"What did I say about making fun of me?" Beca snaps. "I'm not up for playing games."

"Neither am I. Life is too short," Kommissar shoots back heatedly. "After a year, do you really think I would try to humiliate you now? Is it so difficult to imagine that I have changed, just like you have?" 

That brings Beca up short. "No," she answers. "I'm sure you've changed. That's what's throwing me off, because I don't know how to act around you."

"Oh? Why is that?" 

"I don't know," Beca says quickly, her face reddening. "I guess I just always thought of you as this beautiful German superstar who I had to compete against, and this--" she gestures around the kitchen-- "doesn't really mesh with that at all." 

"You can trust me," Kommissar insists after a few moments. "I've always thought you had a certain...allure. Especially when you sing. You say you don't know how to act around me, tiny maus? When you sing, you don't have to act. It comes naturally, and you're good at it. All of the Bellas are. That's why you beat us." 

Beca glances up at Kommissar's face in surprise. The honesty in her features is unmistakeable. "Uh, thanks."

The air between them has cleared somewhat, but Kommissar still feels like a mystery. She is standing close, hands in her pockets, and the look on her face is sly, mischievous. In the past, that look would have preceded embarrassment and humiliation. Now, Beca's not sure what it means.

She clears her throat, and walks around Kommissar, brushing past. The kitchen feels smaller now, way too small. Taking a breath, she picks up one of the pfeffernusse cookies and takes a bite. If she's eating, then there's less chance of her saying something stupid. 

"So...let's just forget that I called you cute," she says after she swallows. 

Kommissar turns, and Beca is once again caught with feeling like she's going to blurt out more idiotic verbal vomit. This is torture, she thinks. This is how she's going to die. 

"You also said," Kommissar begins, her words measured, "that I was beautiful."

"I did?"

A nod. A step closer. Beca doesn't move. 

"Yes. And as I've been trying to tell you for the past ten minutes, the feeling is mutual." 

Beca just scoffs. "I don't--"

"I know you don't believe me," Kommissar says tiredly, then runs a hand through her hair, which had been freed from its ponytail some time ago. "I suppose I'll have to show you, then." 

Beca dimly registers that Kommissar is shuffling towards her and looks up in surprise. She opens her mouth to ask what she's doing, but it becomes clear when Kommissar brings her hand up once more, brushing against her earlobe. The scent of cinammon and sugar lingers as Kommissar leans in. Her head dips, and one of her hands falls gently on Beca's hip. Beca doesn't know where the hell to put her own hands, or what to do, because her whole body is surging with anticipation. 

Kommissar's lips finally touch hers, and Beca lets out a soft hum. Delicious smells are starting to waft around them, but all she can think about is how good this kiss is. How her skin feels like fire under Kommissar's touch. 

The oven timer beeps, and Beca watches dazedly as Kommissar lazily steps back. 

"Do you do that with all your friends?" She'd make more of an effort to sound like she's joking, but her body is still quivering with the aftereffects of the kiss. 

"No," Kommissar chuckles, then pulls on a woolen oven mitt and turns slightly to open the oven door. "Perhaps I should have been more clear. I want to be your girlfriend."

"Yeah, I think I got that." She ambles away from the counter on shaky legs, then pulls a chair out from the kitchen table and sinks into it. She feels like Winnie the Pooh--think, think, think. Kommissar is silently watching her as she takes the tray of cookies out from the oven. They look delicious. Obviously she and Kommissar make a good team, but the questions that keeps swirling around her brain no matter how much she tries to shove them down are why her, and why now.

They're different people than they were a year ago. Beca sees that. She's also aware that rushing into anything would be a bad idea. 

"How about we go on a date and...um...see where it goes?" Beca suggests, even though she's got a pretty good idea of how it will end. With more kissing, if she has anything to say about it. But...no, she's got to be smart about this. She's done with kissing people first and thinking about her emotions later; that's how the whole Jesse thing started and why it had lasted so long. 

Kommissar looks at her, as if she knows how hard Beca is analyzing this. "That would be wonderful, tiny maus." 

 

\---- 

 

"What about that one?" Kommissar asks, gesturing to a douglas fir leaning against the fence near the back. It's taller and fuller than some of the others in the field, and the snow that's coming down dusts it with white and makes it look like it belongs on a freaking Hallmark card. 

"I like it," Beca says, sipping her hot cocoa. "I'll try to help you carry it, even though my guns are...non-existent," she jokes.

Kommissar laughs and clutches her arm, as if she's testing Beca's statement. She leans down, brushing her lips against Beca's hair, and it's so unexpectedly intimate and the fluttering in her chest is something she is still not used to. It's their first date. Beca really needs to get a hold of herself. She blinks against the snow that's starting to fall more heavily now, and some snowflakes get stuck on her eyelashes. This is her first winter in New York, and the fact that she's sharing it with Kommissar seeps down into her bones. 

Her date seems to sense that she's getting lost in her head, and whispers against her temple: "I'm sure we can manage." 

Beca smiles and finishes off her hot cocoa, then finds a garbage can near the path to dump her styrofoam cup in. It's a little crowded in the lot; families and couples are all milling around, looking for the perfect tree. Beca walks back to the tree they'd decided on and flexes her muscles. 

"All right, let's do this." 

It takes a while. Kommissar grabs the trunk and Beca tries to bear most of the weight by lifting the middle of the tree up with her back, like a turtle. Kommissar starts laughing, and then Beca joins in, and she's sure people are staring, staring at these two losers who are so adamant about carrying their tree without anyone's help. Beca is red-faced and sweating by the time they get to her volkswagen, and they tie the tree on top with some bungee cords. 

"Well, that was fun," Beca breathes. She feels hot, and her muscles are burning, but this date is still going better than expected. 

"It was," Kommissar says, and brushes a runaway lock of hair from Beca's forehead. "Thank you." 

Beca stills as she notices the seriousness in the other woman's tone, and she knows that she's not just thanking her for her help with the tree. She mumbles "No problem," and leans up on her tiptoes to kiss her. Kommissar's plaid scarf tickles her jaw as she pulls away. Kommissar touches Beca's coat lightly, dazedly straightening it, then gets into the car.

This is how Kommissar wins Beca over. Not by being overly smooth or flirtatious, but with simple honesty, earnest looks and subtle touches that leave Beca's skin tingling for minutes afterward. 

This is how Beca finally lets someone in. 

 

\----

 

Cynthia Rose glances up at the brownstone and whistles. "Damn, your girlfriend has good taste."

Beca just nods, not bothering to say 'She's not my girlfriend' because she doubts Cynthia Rose will listen. She and Kommissar have only been on two dates, and their relationship, if one could call it that, is barely a week old. Beca wonders if Kommissar would like her half as much if she knew how intensely Beca is overthinking this. Since Jesse, she has been careful not to jump into anything. So this glacial pace will have to do for now. 

Just for now. 

"Woah, you okay? You kind of spaced out for a second," her friend says, then rests a hand on Beca's elbow. 

"Yeah, I'm fine. I just..." 

"Hey. You're the one who's always saying we should move on and let go of the past, right? Ever think about following your own advice?" 

"My advice sucks," Beca growls and balls her fists. "Never listen to my advice again."

"It doesn't suck, dude," Cynthia Rose says, exasperated. "You're not stupid, Kommissar's not out of your league, and it's okay that you dated Jesse for a couple of years without realizing that you weren't in love, okay? It's great, actually, because it made you the awesome human being you are. I mean, I know it was painful, but you have nothing to feel guilty for." 

Beca wants to be angry, but she starts to tear up instead. "You--you're the one who's awesome," she chokes out, then wipes at her eyes frantically. "Fuck, I can't do this." 

"Yes, you can. We're going to march up those steps, and we're going to have a great time with Kommissar and DSM members. Amy and Chloe are probably already drunk, so that'll be fun to watch," Cynthia Rose adds with a huge grin. "Come on, you sure you want to miss that?" 

"No. No, I really don't," Beca laughs, and rolls her eyes as Cynthia Rose offers her her arm and says "M'lady," in an English accent. They walk up the concrete steps, and Beca takes a steadying breath before she rings the doorbell.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from the song 'Saturday' by Rachael Cantu. I think about these two losers every time I hear it.


End file.
